Protocol
by casstic
Summary: Dr. Harleen Quinzel likes her job, but when it comes to a certain 'extreme personality,' she's bad at following the rules. BTAS-verse; Joker/Harleen; directly referenced sex, some graphic language, implied violence.
1. Rules, Harleen?

When did his voice get so low? It's usually higher, more... crazy. Never so seductive. Never so reassuring. I don't want this, I don't want his hands wrapped around my wrists, I don't want to let him pull me up and I don't like the way my lips are begging for control one bit. I know what they want. They want to occupy that cocky grin, and then they want to close over any loose skin on his neck they can find, and then they want to leave a loosely zigzagged trail down his torso... I especially don't want to think about what my lips want. That's just demeaning. What kind of whore does it make me to _want_ to do that for a man?

And then there's his voice, gentle and quite possibly even scarier than his normal tone, floating down from above, because it seems like I have dived inside of myself so deeply that all I can hear are the echoes. "It's okay, Harl. No one has to know."

The familliar nickname rips me up - no, that's a lie. That's a total lie. I could stay down if I wanted to. The truth is, I surface immediately, because I do not want to miss this at all. I have already been lost for too long - both of my wrists are above my head, encircled together in one of his huge, rough hands, and less than a beat after I gasp at the surprise of entering the room to witness this scene, his lips meet mine, giving them what they are crying out for.

Apparently, not all of me has surfaced just yet. My common sense kicks in eventually, and one of my arms joins the good fight, wrenching out of his grasp and applying enough pressure to his chest that he releases the other wrist and staggers backwards.  
"I can't do this. There are rules." _Oh, God, Harleen, stupid fucking move, admitting that protocol is the only thing that keeps you from dropping to the ground and spreading your legs for him like he paid you._

He's angry now.

"Rules, Harleen? Is that true? Or is it more along the lines of you opened your eyes and didn't like what you were looking at?" He laughs, and it's the most mean-spirited laughter I've ever heard from him, which is quite a contest. "You realized that the man who makes you laugh while your face is buried in your clipboard is also the man who looks and forever will look like this, Dr. Quinzel, and I can't say I blame you."

My inner psychologist is whirring. It's a miracle that I don't start jumping up and down about our breakthrough - he's never directly confessed his insecurities to me.

But my inner girl in love wins out, and I close the distance between us, and he grudgingly lets me put my arms around his neck and kiss him again - lovingly, even needily, but with finality. This can't happen again.

"Joker," I purr slowly, choosing my words carefully, "I love how you look." He is still glaring, and he licks his lips. "Do you want to see why my face is buried in my clipboard?"

After a long moment, my arms around his neck, his eyes narrowed and angry, he reaches up to move my arms away. I scramble to my desk, grabbing the legal pad I keep attached to my clipboard, and flipping it to the first day I started talking to him.

I watch him flip through - doodles of him, doodles of me and him... scribbled song lyrics... a painstakingly done drawing of me in a jester's hat that took me at least six sessions to finish. Here and there, notes on his story, reminders to myself to check with the people in charge of his medicine. And today, a drawing of two pairs of legs - one pair bare and shapely, in kitten heels, wrapped around a pair in suit pants. I'd been starting on the arms, gripping each other desperately, when he'd approached me.

He shoots me a look that even I can't decipher and sets down the legal pad.

"Why do you care about the rules, Harl? Why do you care so much about this job, these people? They don't care about you. The city of Gotham loves to chew up psychologists and then spit them right back into Arkham, in a different uniform and on the other side of these bars. Even more than it likes to fuck with all its other citizens. Look at the Scarecrow. Gotham City, this hellhole, it all works the same. They take what's good, and then they beat it down. This job doesn't give a shit about you. If you really wanted to help people, you'd get out of this doomed city and go somewhere that won't turn you into someone... else."

He's laughing, and I can see why. He's sufficiently distracted me, and I'm pinned to a wall, with his body pressed against mine.  
I can go two ways here. I can stammer about the rules some more, insist that our time is up and I have to leave, or I can flirt, show him that I can keep up.

"Maybe I want to be someone else. Maybe I'm not all that disheartened with what this city's produced so far."

He laughs again. "Disheartened! Do they teach you words like that in Loony Bin school, Harl?"

"It's Dr. Quinzel."

And then we're kissing again, and then he pulls away just when I'm about to attach myself to him.

"I think that's all the time we have for today, Harl," he coos, in a pretty good imitation of my accent - he seems to be just joking (of course, when is he not?) and I giggle and blush. He walks me to the door. "We can both get out, Dr. Quinzel," I hear him whisper, as I leave, mindfucked, and the guard locks the door behind me.


	2. Pleasant Goodbyes

I officially suck at being professional. I suck at rules, at behaving like a doctor should. And I know that I could definitely lose my job over this.

But that doesn't stop me from setting the flowers down between us with my eyebrows raised, causing him to laugh.

"How did these make it to my desk?"

"Well, I put them there, Harleen, didn't you see my card?"

"The guards would be interested to know you've been out of your cell."

"Have you told them already, doctor? Because if you haven't, I think we both know you're not going to."

I sink into my chair, rubbing my temples, as he keeps talking.

"Dr. Quinzel, do you want to hear a joke?" Before I know it, he's rubbing my shoulders, all of my hair tucked in front of me, and my eyes are closed.

"Mmm," I mumble, not wanting anything but this moment.

"What is the sound made when a clown busts out of the insane asylum?"

From far off, a _bang_. The guard waiting for me to scream if I need him runs off, and Joker laughs.

Within ten minutes, I'm slumped in my chair, my face in my hands, and he's gone.

* * *

It's a hellish week or two, without him, and when he comes back, bound in a straitjacket and laughing, seeming so crazy, he locks eyes with me, scanning my disheveled appearance. "Why, Dr. Quinzel. Were you worried?" He's dragged away, but not before laughing at the way my eyes widen, and as soon as he's gone I get the hell back to my office as soon as I can.

Our next session, he can tell I've been crying, as he sits down on the large couch. "What's wrong, Harl?" He asks with an angered frown, patting some space next to him. "I would have thought you'd be glad to see me... Didn't you miss me?"

"I'm afraid, Mr. J., that this is our last session together." When did my voice get so clipped, so... iprofessional/i? Especially when inside, I'm just raging. How dare they take him from me, the only thing in my life that matters anymore, that hour and a half a day that takes away everything else temporarily? Don't they know what's happening with me? All I have left is this job. I have no friends, when I'm here all the time, and my cat was hit by a car last week. I haven't seen any family in years. And socially, I don't matter anymore. I don't have any opinion on whether or not the Batman is a criminal, I just know that the way he's fucking with my angel is cruel.

"What?" his voice is angry. He pats the space next to him again, and, like a zombie, I find myself walking over to him, curling up against him, squeezing my eyes shut. "They're taking you away from me, Dr. Quinzel? But... How do they expect me to make any progress without you?" I shoot him a glare, and he smiles sheepishly at me before I cuddle further into him, trying not to cry. Again.

"They said you're bad for me, my reactions to you are..." I searched for the specific word, hissing it out. "Unsavory. They don't want you corrupting me any more than you already may have."

"I guess this is goodbye for now, then, Harl," he murmurs, deftly moving us to lie down, spooning, and he presses soft kisses to my neck and back, sending slight shivers through my body. Slowly, I turn around in his arms.

I know that if I do this, there's no going back. If I surrender, I won't be able to live without him. If I get up now, end our session early without so much as a chaste kiss, and leave him forever, I may be able to deal with not seeing him anymore.

But I don't listen to logic, and with abandon, I push myself over the cliff, past the point of no return.

"I guess so... I've always hated goodbyes," I purr. I see his eyebrows peak in interest, noting the change in my tone.

"We can make this particular goodbye pleasant?" he suggests, one of his hands sliding down from my shoulder to my hip.

Good, we're on the same page. "If it's meant to be pleasant, it's not going to be a goodbye," I hint, and he laughs that loud, wicked laugh.

"Let's take this one step at a time, Harleen," he growls, and in an instant I'm lying on my back with him straddling me, pushing my coat up and off of my arms. "Don't make any promises you intend to... escape."

* * *

I would have expected him to find a whore over the last week, but the way he is with me is desperate, like it's been a very long time. He's also gentle, and he listens, even when I don't say anything, and it's the best I can remember having in a long time, maybe ever. We're both so hungry for something - me for someone who makes me feel like I'm not crazy; him for someone who can actually look at him, take in his strikingly pale body, his permanently dyed face. And it's obvious, the way it feels like this will never end, how much we both needed that.

* * *

We finish with half an hour left in our last session, and I cuddle into him, tracing his features with my eyes and fingers, and he seems to have recanted his earlier statement about promises. "We're both nuts, Harl," he murmurs, opening his eyes to look at me. "We should bolt!" He laughs, and I sort of half-giggle-half-snicker, and he kisses me possessively. "You can't live without me, Harleen," he muses, and I shake my head, dazed, as I start to dress and he watches me.

"Put your clothes on, puddin'," I mumble, and he raises his eyebrows at the pet name but does so, grinning at me. As I put my hair up in a bun, trying to make it look like it wasn't just destroyed in such ilicit activities, he looks at me much more possessively than before.

I leave more reluctantly than ever, spending the slow walk back to my office planning and trying to find Harleen, because I already know I've lost her.


	3. Breakout

There are two sheets of yellow paper on my desk, torn from my legal pad, with two lists on each.

The first has a list of pros and cons. The list of pros is, admittedly, much longer, than the list of cons, but I made up for it by drawing my absolute favorite con to take up the rest of the space on that half of the page. So the strikes against staying in my cushy job at Arkham and being a functioning member of the real world won, fair and square.

The second page followed my decision, and it includes a list of stops I need to make before I can move onto the second list, which are the things I'll want with me.

* * *

I've been licensed to own a gun since I was of legal age to do so. My father insisted; taught me to shoot and everything. I've kept two guns – one little handgun that I can handle half-asleep and with my eyes closed, and a shotgun that I can hold, shoot, and most importantly, threaten with. The shotgun goes in my bag, the handgun in my new thigh holster, over my new outfit – tight, brightly colored, and not an inch of forgiveness.

I've got some clothes, some makeup, the guns, and a knife – beyond that, there's not much I consider necessary. Harleen had all of Dawson's Creek on DVD; Harley Quinn... Might need those. My movie case is coming with me.

* * *

I get some stares on the bus, sure. Some stares that say quite clearly, "my stop is up next – wanna 'get off' with me?" but most say "you're certainly on the way to Arkham."

Which I am.

The guard gives me an exceptionally confused look, which I bat away with a quick, mumbled, "on my way to a costume party – left something into my office," and I'm in. Just like that. My laughter echoes down the hallway of cells, and I see my favorite sleepy prisoner sit up slowly.

"Hiya, puddin'!" I greet cheerfully, aware that I'm almost certainly already attracting negative attention. "No, no, Mistah J," I admonish as he starts to come near the glass separating us, waving him to the back of his cell. "Stay back there..." In a swift motion, I pop the sticky bomb against it and run off. The _bang _is so satisfying, and I'm pleased to see that my baby is no dumb fool – he's caught up to me within seconds, and we're running together.


End file.
